


Poème Orgiaque

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Coming Untouched, F/M, Unreliable Narrator, scene elaboration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: He was not Don Juan, he was not Faust, nor Mephistopheles. He was music, and if there existed something like truth at all, this was his truest form.My take on the Point of no Return scene.





	Poème Orgiaque

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Traillbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traillbits/gifts), [Mazen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazen/gifts).



> Firmly ALW, stage production (a mix of London 1986 & Los Angeles 1990) with just a nod to Leroux. Firmly based on the one and only original OG, because what else.  
> I included quite a bit of PoNR lyrics in this fic (always in italics), because I deemed it necessary, and they don't belong to me, but to their copyright holders. The interpretation through the eyes of the sad priapic gargoyle is mine, though. :-)
> 
> Dedicated to QueenCrawfori and Mazen, who both asked me to do the PoNR scene (and, hell yay, no persuasion needed, I've wanted to do that anyway!) <3
> 
> Accompanying artwork by Stamina Overlook.

Дух,

Жаждой жизни окрыленный,

Увлекается в полет

На высоты отрицанья.

 

Spirit,

Winged with the thirst for life,

Is drawn into flight

On the summits of negation.

 

(Alexander Scriabin,Поэма экстаза / The Poem of Ecstasy, Op. 54, from the composer’s self-published brochure)

 

 

**Poème Orgiaque**

 

If only he had been able to call it madness, or a case of gloating hubris - for the trap was set and waiting for its prey. There were policemen lurking throughout the building, marksmen standing by and closely monitoring the auditorium, all out for a glimpse of the beast, a whiff of the monster, the blood of the despised creature. The trap was set, but the walls still had eyes and ears, his eyes and ears, and he already knew of Christine’s betrayal, its pain cutting deeply into him and feeding a strange sense of urgency.

Yet, here he was. Hiding in the shadow of the wings and not only about to walk willingly into the spiteful trap, but to literally take centre stage in his personal _Musikdrama_. So, was that madness then or overconfidence, a reckless trust in his own abilities to make a well-timed escape or to come up with something even remotely resembling a plan, or - or was it a suicidal act of despair? And did it matter? The die was cast, and however this was going to end, there was no going back now. This Don Juan was already condemned to hell, had been cursed and condemned to hell from birth; he might as well chase what small morsel of heaven did present itself, and revel in the triumph of his inevitable wretchedness.

And what else but both inevitable and wretched was the loop of catgut in his hand that found its way around Piangi’s neck as soon as the unfortunate tenor walked off the stage and right into the devil’s ambit, never to mangle a whole-tone scale again? As if it had been written into the score, the garrotte tightened in the correct measure, at least as far as music was concerned. Erik caught the heavy body before it could fall to the floor, and dragged it away into the darkness of the nearest alcove. The lack of a pulse was unexpected, Erik had to admit, but did not the beat of his own fevered heart amply make up for it? Accident or not - and were there ever _accidents_ where his cursed existence had a hand in it? - in the excitement of this night it paled as minor mishap.

There! There was his cue, and his creation pulled him onto the stage, into the limelight, and he was secretly glad about the heavy black brocade of his hooded cloak that shielded him from the almost two-thousand pairs of eyes that would dish out disgusted judgement if they knew, if they could see…

With Passarino sent away in Don Juan’s conspiratorial undertone, he took command of the scene, and from the back of the stage slowly moved closer to Aminta who was sitting like a beacon of beauty and light amidst the dark-panelled still-life of the scenery, playing with an apple like the first woman on Earth, playing with fire without fully knowing. Not the well-laid dinner table brimming over with faux fruits and delicacies, but Christine’s presence filled the stage with the lush freshness of life, a careless joie de vivre, her daring costume and long natural curls enhancing the mix of innocence and romantic curiosity that made the character of Aminta so desirable. Erik drank in the sight of her; this long-desired chance to share the limited space of the stage with her seemed like a soft, warm rain to him, and he was athirst for more of this sweet presence, betrayal or not.

 _You have come here - in pursuit of your deepest urge…_ The trilled “r” of Piangi’s coloured his voice, but the words and the harmonies were his, and they were a clear und unmistakable declaration, carried by the vibrant accompaniment of the woodwinds - yes, she had come here, here she was in front of him, alive and real - and for the length of the verse he felt himself transported back to the moment she had first set foot in his home under the _Opéra_ , the moment he had first introduced her to his _seat of sweet music’s throne_ ; then, too, her presence in his space had been incredible and intoxicating and… yet so right and natural. They were meant to breathe the same air, she belonged in his space, belonged to him, and now she was here, in his creation, this intrinsic part of himself, breathing the same music, his music - _that our passions may fuse and merge_. The strings set in more strongly and brass gilded them, as she got up from the bench, playfully putting distance between herself and Don Juan, ever the kittenish maiden Aminta, but he picked up the heavy goblet and followed her on polytonal chords across the stage, feeling his feet carry his body in soft, measured steps, becoming the seducer: _In your mind you've already succumbed to me…_ Her soul had already obeyed him, yes, she was here, with him, _no second thoughts_ , and she had been with him before, and had he not already filled her mind, filled her? And she let him, let him close in on her and catch up with her down-stage - _you've decided, decided_ \- the goblet just an empty prop, but his purposefully scripted words an offering of libation between them, and she accepted, let him snatch the apple out of her grasp, and took the goblet with both of her hands.

When had he last been so close to her, close enough for them to invade not only each other’s minds, but their physical personal space, close enough to touch, close enough to smell the scent of her curls, close enough to feel the flowing fabric of his cloak and her wide skirts rub against each other, accidentally, simply by grace of the shared radius of their movements? No, he would not look back, because the past was brought back and overruled and multiplied by the present moment, by the now, by standing right next to her, and only this imbued everything with reality. Could she feel it, too, the spark between them, the air crackling with tension? Despite the disguise provided by the costume, despite the illusion in which he cloaked his voice - surely, she had to feel it by now…

 _Past the point of no return - no backward glances - the games we've played till now are at an end…_ Erik felt his grip on Piangi’s pronunciation slacken, and he welcomed it; his creation demanded what was its prerogative: his real voice, his real essence. He was not Don Juan, he was not Faust, nor Mephistopheles. He was music, and if there existed something like truth at all, this was his truest form. Music was deceiving, yes, but only in terms of perception; and exactly this deception enabled it to lift the distorting veil of the visible world and explore the truth of feeling.

She had to know - the way Christine suddenly looked up from the goblet, how her lips parted ever so slightly, the minute shudder in her frame, the fine hairs on her arms that stood on end - he saw and felt it, and his hands, so bare, ungloved and sensitive, reached out of their own volition, magically drawn to her form, to conduct, to touch: urging her on to bring the cup to her lips and partake of the imaginary wine, true to the staging of their performance, but also caressing her hands and the tender skin between her clothed shoulder and her neck in the most fleeting of touches, and surely Piangi would not…! But Erik would, and Erik had, and those nights of worship in the shelter of his lair, they had to have left their burning mark on her skin as much as they had seared themselves into his soul. Was it his voice, was it his touch, that gave him away now, that he hoped would give him away, was it the memory of his fingers on her skin? She had to see it, _if_ she only wanted to see it, _when_ she wanted to see it, how they were connected by invisible threads of longing. They were indeed _past all thought of if or when_ , and did she not respond beautifully? Did she not show an answering tremble when she wiped her allegedly wine-stained lips with the back of her hand, a clever sensual move, then let him take this very hand into his, while the snare drum started beating an incessant rhythm of urgency, like the ticking of a clock? This was stronger and truer than a staged gesture, Erik knew he had to communicate that unequivocally, but there was no reason to worry, as his right hand ensured it all on its own, holding Christine’s firmly, thumbs sliding against each other, fingers circling her wrist in a gliding caress, not restraining, but seducing, clasping her hand, this hand that had touched her lips, and pulling her entire body towards his own.

 _Abandon thought and let the dream descend_ \- once more, once more like in those days! In those days, hours, moments - when his chthonic kingdom had known no passage of time or light of day, and moans had filled its realm with the most sublime music of the night. And she recalled it! Erik saw it clearly and felt a twinge of arousal lance through him. Her breath had quickened noticeably, and her wide-eyed stare betrayed her eager agitation - _what raging fire shall flood the soul?_ \- as Aminta teared herself away from his grasp and fled back across the stage to take her seat on the bench by the table again, her bosom heaving. Pure, virginal Aminta who was so scared of her own desire! Sweet, angelical Christine, this little vixen, who was so eager yet so adamant in her denial, while he could taste the scent of her arousal in the air, so familiar and enticing.

Erik felt himself all but floating back into her web, seduced and seducing with the sounds of the flute joining his efforts, as he discarded the apple he had still been holding, this trite symbol of forbidden fruit, on the table and joined her on the bench. _What sweet seduction lies before us_ \- sweet as the scent of the curls he wanted to bury his horrible face in, like he had before. _What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn_ \- warm as the soft wet heat of her core that he wanted to feel around his hardness, surrounding him, embracing him, squeezing him. He could feel Christine flooding his senses, her essence in and around him, so close and real that his fingers itched to touch again, but control was a fickle thing, and so he settled for letting his hands comb through her open hair, this bridal veil of nature, and describe a path of worship from her inviting décolleté over the corseted bodice of her dress down to the valley of her lap, not quite touching, but evoking a trail of hopes and memories, ghosts of touches that had to leave fire in their wake, no, certainly left fire in their wake - he could see how her curves leaned into his almost-touch, how they yielded to his will, how her hands even joined his briefly to guide him to the places, lower, lower, where she obviously wanted him most. They stirred his mind as much as his body, and left him yearning for the soft skin he knew he would find under the many layers of clothing, this armour made of ruffles and lace. She surely felt, she knew, oh she had to, what hid under his own layers, this cloak of Don Juan’s, this miserable phantom, this priapic gargoyle - under them all there was raw music. His own heartbeat had long joined the orchestra, but this one instrument was conducted by the frenzy of his desire alone. And it became too much too soon, when she leaned into his touches, her eyes wild in a mix of terror and bliss, canting her head a little, just like this, into the direction of his hooded features, as if teasing Don Juan with the idea of a kiss. Abruptly, he felt his head bow away from her too intent gaze, as if he had become the coy one all of sudden, bow away from something he dared not say out loud or even think of, because this would be joy, hopeful joy, and so much more than just pliable flesh, and it could never be, could it.

If she was startled by this slight deviation from the rehearsed staging - and was she startled by Don Juan’s extempore of gesture, or by her own complicity, or by something else, surely, but then, she had to know by now… - she composed herself quickly enough to rise to the challenge and sing her part of the duet.

He heard her voice, strong and unwavering in the chromatic vigour of his music, as she got up from the bench and crossed stage-right, while he was grateful to his own ingenious mind that had devised the staging: he could remain seated, not trusting his legs now that had gone weak at the knees. She, she had brought him _to that moment where words run dry_ , and words could indeed not convey anymore how he burned in raw atonal need, while his throat closed up and mouth went parched. Still, he had his music, the same music that now flowed so beautifully from Christine’s lips, filling the silence of his desire, that reduced even the strings to a shuddering whisper, with eloquent passion. It was her part of the declaration, was it not - _I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why_ …Why had she come here, to give voice to his creation on stage, to invest herself into his art beyond all reason and decorum? How should all this be just the skilful acting of a lying Delilah? No, betrayal or not, trap or not, no, her voice betrayed her desires as much as her body did.

 _In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent_ … His words, of course, _his_ words, but from her mouth, and sung with so much desperate passion and instancy, that Erik did not need to pretend. He was still keeping his body turned half away from her, almost hunching, his face in the shadows, but what he could not see with his own eyes, he keenly saw in his mind: how her posture would be reaching for him, the invisible lover, for his ungodly flesh, her hands mimicking their carnal embrace of past nights deep below by the lake. And she was here with him now! That was all which counted - _no second thoughts_ , _I've decided, decided_.

These words of his own making hit him as if he had heard them for the first time in his life - and in a way he had, his mind supplied -, as they teared down his last defences. He felt every single muscle in his body tighten, every nerve on fire, into the very tips of his fingers, as their involuntary movements turned into a dance of liquid heat, fuelled by a strength that came from a place deep within him. _Past the point of no return_ \- he saw his hands clutch the air before him, _no going back now_ , desperate to make the connection to her living flesh, to grab her body instead of her spectre, his own flesh silently crying out to hold her, pull her as close as humanly possible, closer still, his frenzied breaths shaking his form in small spasms and thrusts, and then - _our passion play has now at last begun_ \- her voice was coming closer indeed, heightened by the insistent beat of the snare drum again, this frenetic ticking of the clock. It was his own hungry hands that started to roam his body, in disbelief and painful want, but it was she who was closing in on him, voice and body and soul - _past all thought of right or wrong_ \- and then she was standing right behind his seated form, towering over him with heat and softness and the reality of the moment, and those were her hands on his back - _one final question_ \- her hands sliding up over his shoulders - _how long should we two wait_ \- her hands seeking to clasp both of his which came up to meet them of their own volition in a display of tentative hope and trust that he could not stop from spilling out of him - _before we're one_ \- her fingers interlacing with his, pushing, pulling, demanding. And he could not hold in a sob of relief at the touch of her skin against his - _when will the blood begin to race_ \- at the feel of their entwined fingers, each point of contact between them buzzing with _more, more, more_ , come heaven or hell, the blood in his veins singing, a conduit made of music between them.

He had once warned her about the more extreme side of his music, while inviting her in nevertheless - it would burn her, change her, destroy her. But no one had warned him what hearing, no, experiencing her perform his art would do to him, how it would burn him, too, how it would turn him inside out and undo him! Once upon a time, he had thought he would take the score of his opera, this work of a lifetime, into his grave with him, for he just had to complete it and die, there was nothing else to achieve afterwards, when the creature had become the ultimate creator. But it had never been complete before tonight, he could see this now! Hearing it sung by Christine made it first real; singing it with Christine was both holy communion and demonic consummation, her taking him into her folds, becoming one with him - and yes, this, too, was going to kill him! Yet, he would die again and again, willingly, fucking her with his music, and taking her soul and her cunt, and letting her kill his corpse over and over, every sound and note by her and within her an answering thrust.

Those inquisitive hands of hers were still tightly holding onto his, and then they followed Erik’s lead - or was it Christine’s, because was this even under his control anymore? - and started caressing his head through the hood of his cloak. Madness! Utmost rapture! Despite the twin layers of the brocade fabric and his wig, he could still feel her ardent touch so acutely, that this was already too much for him, but then - _the sleeping bud bursts into bloom_ \- those hands were moving lower again, wandering possessively over his chest, and the motion made her bend herself over his form from behind, covering his back with even more of her body, pushing close and rubbing against him, her breasts a firm weight nestling against his shoulder blades, and Erik sensed a current going through him from head to toes, felt the pull of his ever growing arousal, as it kept him on the edge of the precipice both feared and longed for. _When will the flames at last consume us?_ It was both moan and song, and he basked in the scent and sound of her, a feast for a starving man, unction for the dying. Too much and not enough, never enough!

The strings swelled and grew bolder, prompting Erik into action, and his voice rose to meet Christine’s in their duet, as he simultaneously got up from the bench and whirled around, breaking their contact for just the shortest of moments and only to take her hands once more and pull her towards himself, but this time he was facing her and directly meeting her mesmerised and mesmerising gaze - _past the point of no return, the final threshold!_

His voice intensified tenfold by hers, their duet more than the sum of them, it lived and breathed between them. From far away, through the haze, he heard gasps in the audience, as by now everyone must have felt it, the orgiastic atmosphere filling the stage and the theatre with an exorbitance of lifeblood. Even those philistine fools in the auditorium, who had always cared more for the smoke and mirrors, trite scandals and grand spectacle, even those could not be so blind to miss how his music peeled away her layers of costume, how the characters bared themselves in front of each other and for each other, the notes creeping up under her skirts, pushing aside yards of fabric in a most daring culmination of _verismo_. No matter the wide and flowing cloak, the audience (and that insolent boy among them) had to see how his cock strained towards her, thick and heavy with blood, sinfully alive; they (and that boy) had to see how she dripped with desire for him, wetness glistening all the way down to her exposed calves; they (and that boy) had to feel the thrusts of the cymbals, hear the crescendo of their song - _the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn_! They all had to see them soar together, drown together, shatter in each other’s arms - _we’ve passed the point of no return_ \- a worthy death, a final…

And just like that Erik felt a sudden draught of air, chill on his sweat-dampened face, as the hood of his cloak was thrown back, thrown back by her hands, exposing him to her unhindered gaze. He was vaguely aware how the stage light had to emphasise the white gleam of his mask, aware some more how their heavy breathing was a jarringly loud echo of their duet in the moment of silence after its last note had faded away. But above all, he was aware of Christine’s staring eyes firmly trained on his face, and he could not determine what he saw in them amidst the vestiges of orgasmic bliss. Surprise? No, not surprise, but realisation. Fear? No, not common fear, but a certain terror. And something more… A challenge almost, a look of longing that said: let me see you. This, this was what made him look away, flee her gaze, and he turned to put a few steps of distance between them, composing himself - no, he was decidedly past any chance of composure. Don Juan was gone, the spell broken, and Erik felt himself breaking, too, cold tendrils of melancholia starting to clutch at his heart.

There was nothing left to say but… but that which he had not said before, not in a socially appropriate way in any case. And so the words started to flow out of him, not part of his opera anymore, but the only words he could form in this moment: _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…_ A sad and pleading ballad - was that what she expected him to say? _Lead me, save me from my solitude_ … A confession, a gentle declaration of his love for her, for all the cruel world to see and hear, in bright unforgiving light. A question, not a threat; a plea, not a command. _Say you want me with you here, beside you_ … It was the diatonic song of the conventional, not Erik’s music, and it was all too similar to the mundane courtship song of that boy, but what was left for him than to flee into the _contrafactum_ of romantic civility and ask for her hand? Wasn’t this what she wanted, what had driven her to the boring Vicomte in the first place? This was new and frightening territory for Erik, and he could only hope against hope that she would see the sincerity of his love, acknowledge the depth of his feelings. He was utterly baring himself for her, without relying on the dissonant beauty of his own violent music.

His voice could not suppress a sob - _anywhere you go, let me go too!_ \- as he took the ring from his little finger and, with trembling hands, reached out for her, in offering: _Christine_! And it was Christine’s hand that met his and took his ring - _that's all I_ \- and it was Christine’s hand that put his ring onto her own finger in miraculous acceptance - _ask of…_ \- and it was Christine’s hand, that same hand, that was now ripping off his mask and wig, and he had seen it coming, in the split second between utter bliss and the deadly blow, the moment when furore flashed in her eyes and expunged whatever glimpse of love of the most exquisite kind he had hoped to see there, in her panicked attempt to stop herself, the terrible moment realisation hit her like the harsh awakening from a dream, and he had seen it coming - for his declaration of love was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but it had been the wrong thing to say, at the wrong time and place, in a life nothing but wrong and certainly never conventional; and he saw the sadness under all her ire, in this moment when time had come to a standstill, but then it was over, and the world outside came crashing down, the screams, the shouts, the thousands of eyes staring at his monstrosity in disgust and horror, and while such a drop from a great height would have killed lesser men, he was a monster and no merciful death came to take him away.

So down they plunged once more, through the trapdoor of his old tried and tested patterns, and it was not Don Juan’s descent into hell, as much as he wished for it.

  

This beautiful illustration was created for this phic by the very talented Stamina Overlook (check out her [Tumblr](https://staminaoverlook.tumblr.com) to see more of her gorgeous art).

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Alexander Scriabin's symphonic poem "Le Poème de l'Extase", Op. 54, which premiered in 1908. Originally, Scriabin wanted to call it "Poème Orgiaque". Check it out, but make sure you are in the privacy of your home.  
> In Gaston Leroux's novel, Erik's "Don Juan Triomphant" is not an opera, but a kind of dramatic symphony or symphonic poem. In my fic I follow the ALW universe, so an opera it is! But I cannot resist imagining what kind of piece it could have been aesthetically, so imho it would be a tantalising cross between Richard Strauss' "Don Juan", Scriabin's "Le Poème de l'Extase", Alexander Dargomyzhsky's opera "Каменный гость", and maybe a bit of Igor Stravinsky's "Le Sacre du Printemps" thrown in for good measure. Enough to make any red-blooded being swoon.


End file.
